


Didn't Miss

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Assassination, BAMF John, Character Death (?), Dead Wife DVD of the Month Club, Happy Ending, M/M, Rage, Revenge, psych issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 05:13:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12403905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Sherlock is murdered saving John Watson and dies in his arms. Then a mysterious DVD arrives on the day of the funeral...is the game really over?





	1. Chapter 1

“No, Sherlock, no, no, no...” John plead as he held the dying man in his arms.

 

Sherlock reached up a trembling hand to lay bloodied fingertips against John’s face. Only moments before, they had been tentatively exploring the new, blossoming bloodstain on his shirt, just under his heart. “Good shot,” he had said, just before coughing up blood.

 

Now, sharp silver eyes locked with shocked blue ones as Sherlock said, in a voice tinged with bubbling bloody froth, “Better me than you, John.”

 

“NO!” John yelled, ignoring the sound of running feet around him. One set was running away, he could tell that, but others were running toward them to help. He distantly heard a police whistle. None of it mattered.

 

Sherlock was dying.

 

“John, I should tell you, that...I...” the words trailed off as the silver eyes became unfocused and the heavily-lashed lids closed. His pale skin lost all color, as did his beautiful, full lips, becoming lax and shrunken-looking. His fingertips dragged down John’s cheek and fell away, leaving patchy streaks behind. Sherlock’s rangy body went suddenly limp in his arms, sagging against John’s taut body as he tried to roll Sherlock’s now-lolling head onto his chest rather than let it fall back, like a dead man’s.

 

_Like a dead man’s…_

 

He heard a bobbie directing people around the scene, clearing a way for the medics. He hadn’t heard them arrive. In fact, John hadn’t heard _anything_ other than Sherlock’s final, breathy words...”

 

“ _NO_! _NO, YOU BLOODY BASTARD!_ _DON’T LEAVE ME AGAIN!_ Don’t leave...”

 

He buried his face in Sherlock’s hair, still smelling of his poncy shampoo and herbal-scented pomade that helped him manage his otherwise-unruly curls. Pulling Sherlock’s body to him, he resisted all attempts to pry Sherlock from his arms until someone stuck a needle into his neck, causing his limbs to suddenly go limp.

 

“No, no, no...Sherlock, no, no...”

 

He was groggy, reliving a nightmare from so many years ago, before he and Sherlock had become true, equal partners in their business. His mind replayed this scene, as someone pulled him away while the people nearby lifted up Sherlock’s unresponsive form and placed him on the stretcher provided, whisking it away into a nearby A&E.

 

_St. Barts. Why is it always bloody St. Barts? Should burn the fucking place down...so much of my life revolves around this bloody building…_

 

His mind revolted at the thought. He had met Sherlock here, the best thing that had ever happened to him, and, now, TWICE, it had taken him away…

 

He surged forward, trying to follow the stretcher, but his limbs were like warm butter and his mind was wavering in and out of reality.

 

_Someone drugged me. Why the hell would they do that? Didn’t do that last time..._

 

“Bring him, too,” a familiar voiced called out. The face of DI Gregory Lestrade rippled into view. “John, we’re taking you to the A&E. You’re in shock...”

 

“I’ve...been drug...” John tried to say, but his tongue was like a limp noodle in his mouth, unwilling to cooperate. He sounded drunk.

 

“Yeah, we’ll check you over, John, don’t worry,” Lestrade reassured him before calling over more officers to assist John.

 

“Shhherrrlock...” John slurred, just as he collapsed completely and surrendered himself to the power of the drug.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The funeral was a blur. Mycroft was there, as was the entire Holmes family not currently incarcerated in a mental institution. There were no tears; everyone was somber but _distant_. Shock, perhaps? John didn’t know. All he knew was that here he was again. Another funeral for Sherlock, only, _this_ time, for real. John had felt him die in his arms, against his own body. There was no doubt this time…

 

After the interment, John chose to return to Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson rather than to stay with the Holmes family and acquaintances. He politely made his escape and walked back home, to a place he no longer wanted to be, not without Sherlock.

 

They walked together, Mrs. Hudson burbling away, as usual, John nodding appropriately when required. When they reached the front door, Mrs. Hudson slid her key in the lock and opened the door.

 

“Oh! What is this, John? A letter for you?” she asked as she held up a square envelope.

 

John recognized it immediately. It was a DVD envelope. On the front were two words, written large in black marker.

 

It said, “DIDN’T MISS”.

 

John grabbed the envelope from Mrs. Hudson and stared at it, unbelieving.

 

“John?” Mrs Hudson asked, but John ran past her, sprinting upstairs to his laptop, lying where Sherlock had left it only days ago. He tore open the flap and, carefully, slid the disc into the laptop reader. Mrs. Hudson came up from behind him and asked, “Is it...like the others?”

 

“Don’t know,” John said, tightly. “Mary...Rosamund’s dead. Moriarty’s _supposed_ to be dead, but you never know with him. He’s like Lazarus; he keeps coming back.” He pressed Play.

 

A room came into view on the screen. It was nondescript, gave no clue as to where it might be. There was an empty chair facing the camera. Muffled voices could be heard in the background.

 

Suddenly, a figure loomed into view as it sat down. Mrs. Hudson gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. John’s face hardened as his eyes became dark. “Mary.”

 

The familiar face filled the screen, only, this time, the hair was brown and wavy. She smiled in the same way Mary, _his_ Mary, did, but the eyes were cold and the lines around her mouth were set hard.

 

“Hello, Sherlock. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Long enough for you and John to get on with your lives, hmmm? To get together, _finally_ , now that I wasn’t in the way? You _know_ that was intentional, don’t you? That Jim sent me to keep John from killing himself over losing you? When you returned, he was all ready to propose to me, right in front of you. Oh, you can’t know how delicious that was, when you finally realized he was lost to you, that _I_ had taken him over!”

 

A muscle jerked in John’s taut jaw and his left hand clenched. He kept watching, eyes glued to the screen.

 

“He was a good man, wasn’t he? Our John Watson. Brave, loyal, kind, all the things that would have made him the finest kind of human being imaginable. I didn’t deserve him. I even told him that. Good guys finish last, don’t you know? And bad girls are usually the reason!” She laughed without any real feeling behind it. Laughed because she was _clever_.

 

“They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. It’s feeling pretty cold right now, isn’t it, Sherlock? Without John to keep you warm? Without his friendship to keep you centered? Without his _love_ to keep you sane? Oh, Sherlock, you were _such_ a fool, letting John marry me, even though it _did_ help keep him alive just a little bit longer!”

 

She smiled smugly as she continued. “Did you know he was in love with you? _I_ did. _Jim_ did.  Everybody _but_ him. Poor John...what a lovable idiot he was! “Not really gay,” indeed! The letter of the law, but not the spirit of it. He didn’t really love me, even though we had sex many, _many_ times together. You were on his mind, I think, and that made me really come to _despise_ you. You see, Sherlock, I’m very, _very_ good at my job, but I couldn’t make him fall in love with me. Others, yes, but not _him_. There was always the ghost of Sherlock Holmes in the way. That was _infuriating_! Oh, I played the game, pretended to be the good friend, but, inside, I wanted you to _suffer_. You made me stay with Little Johnny Sunshine for _far_ too long. Of course, the pregnancy didn’t help, either. _That_ was a mistake, a little slip during my solo Bachelorette party a month before the wedding. God, he was _so_ much better in bed than John! John may have had the equipment, but he didn’t have the _feel_ for it.” She laughed again before her tone became hard as steel. “Still thinking about _you_ , you bloody bastard. The Great Sherlock Holmes. Well, not so great anymore, are you? Where are you without your blogger? Twat!” She spat on the floor.

 

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t said a word or moved a muscle. John’s face just became darker and darker, his body coiled like a spring.

 

Recovering herself again, Mary continued in a faux-sugary voice. “So, you see, Sherlock, Jim _wins_. He promised he would burn your heart out, and he _has_. I was _there_ when he made that promise. He _knew_ John was your heart, and that he was _vulnerable_. I had my laser sight right on _your_ heart _,_ the one you said you didn’t have. One wrong move, and the game would have ended there. You played it well but, in the end, it was that phone call from Irene that _ultimately_ saved you, _not_ your bravado. And John? He was just a bit player, a toy we used to get to you. So, you see, even if we’re dead, we still win! _That’s_ how you play the game, Sherlock.” She blew a kiss to the screen. “Laters!”

 

John screeched with all the strength his voice could carry. He swept the laptop off the desk with one arm and kicked the chair he had been sitting in. Howling, he trashed the parlor, throwing papers, books, pillows—anything he could grab or kick or upend, he did. Mrs. Hudson backed away in horror, screaming, “John, no! Don’t! The neighbors…!”

 

“BUGGER THE FUCKING NEIGHBORS!” John screamed as he dropped to his knees and yelled expletives into his hands. His body shook, nearly convulsing in fury and pain, as his former wife’s words rattled around in his head like a small-calibre bullet. “NONONONONONO!!!”

 

Mrs. Hudson ran downstairs and called the police. They carted him off to St. Barts for a psych eval and a nice, long rest...


	2. Chapter 2

The flat was unnaturally quiet for a few days, while John was in the locked ward. 

Mycroft came to visit, as did Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade, but John refused to see them. He paced the locked ward, his eyes downcast and his hands clenched behind him, his lips moving silently. He seemed unresponsive to most who saw him.

Mycroft was not fooled.

He managed to obtain a private audience with John in his single room. John sat on the bed, hands clenched in his lap, staring at the floor. Mycroft took a seat on a cheap metal chair by the bolted-down desk. He waited patiently for John to acknowledge him. When he didn’t Mycroft, rapped his umbrella on the tile floor several times, loudly, and cleared his throat.

Still no response. Finally, Mycroft unsubtly jabbed his umbrella tip into John’s leg, eliciting an extreme movement and a stream of invective that truly impressed him. 

“Are you done ignoring me?” he asked, archly.

John gave him a poisonous look but said nothing. Mycroft nodded.

“John, I watched the dvd...” 

“Why?” John asked, looming over him and bestowing upon him another poisonous look. “You had no right...”

“I am Sherlock’s brother...”

“Were.”

Mycroft ignored the jab and continued. “What would you think if I told you that both Moriarty and Mary may be alive?” He raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

John glared at him truculently. “I’d say you might be right.”

The other eyebrow went up. “Oh? And what makes you say that?”

John stood defiantly before on Mycroft, hands on hips. “Mary said ‘if’. ‘If we’re dead’...too open-ended, very unlike her. Mary likes things concrete, no ‘ifs’ involved.” He stroked his stubbly chin. “The thing that gets me is, why send the dvd if they knew that it was Sherlock who was killed, not me? Makes no sense.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed. “The killer must have reported back to them, so why send it to you?” He waited for John’s reaction.

“Clever!” John suddenly exclaimed. “She said ‘clever’! That was something Sherlock was always on about, being clever. According to Sherlock, Moriarty even said that to him; ‘you want everything to be clever’. And Sherlock...he said that the fallibility of genius is that it needs an audience. Well, Sherlock may be gone, but they still have an audience. Me.” He nodded. “Sending the dvd lets me know that I’m only alive because Sherlock...” he swallowed hard, “sacrificed himself for me. Jumped between me and the gunman just before he fired, just like Mary...”

A light came into his eyes that hadn’t been there moments before. “SHIT! What a fucking goose I am!”

Mycroft straightened up, his face carefully composed yet, somehow, slightly alarmed. “What are you on about?”

John slammed his fist on the desk and stated, clear-mindedly, “I have to get out of here, Mycroft. I have to let them know I’m looking for them. ALL of them. I have to make myself a target.”

The expression of alarm in Mycroft’s face grew significantly. “John, I will not countenance you trying to get yourself killed over my brother...”

“Shut it, Mycroft. I know what I’m doing. Sherlock and I have done this before...”

“Sherlock is no longer here...”

“But I am and you are, and you’re supposed to be an even bigger brain that he was, aren’t you?” John challenged him.

Eyes narrowed, Mycroft considered the smaller man’s offer. “Ye-e-es, I think I see what you’re up to here. Bring them out into the open for one last chance to be done with the nuisance you and my brother provided them.”

John grinned without humor. It was feral. “I let them know I’m not letting this thing go. That I’m going to hunt them down, gum up the works for them. They’ll have to come get me. Then we get them!”

Mycroft smiled and nodded in accord. The game was on again.

>>>***<<<

Looking around the parlor, John stated, “It’s good to be home again.”

“Oh, John, I’m so glad they finally let you go, dear,” Mrs Hudson chirped as she solicitously handed him a cup of tea.

“Yeah, me, too. The food in there was terrible, and the beds were worse than in the army!” John joked as he sipped his tea. 

“So glad you’re feeling better, dear. It was such a shock about Sherlock...” She stopped and placed a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, dear. Didn’t mean to bring up such a sensitive subject…

John waved a hand dismissively. “It’s okay, Mrs. H. I’m on medications right now that would make me give even Mycroft a hug!” He took another swig. 

Wearing a pained smile of sympathy, Mrs. Hudson exited the room quietly, in obvious discomfort.

BEDEEP! 

Text message. John read it quickly, then put down his teacup to tap back a message. A minute or so later…

BEDEEP!

John sat down, read the message, and typed back a response before taking another sip of tea. This continued into the early evening. With each new text, John’s smile became wider and wider.

Sherlock isn’t the only one who can utilize the Network...

BEDOOP!

Another message, this time from Mycroft. 

Do you have the information that I requested? --MH

Tappitytaptaptap

Yes. They know who he is and where to find him. Let’s set it up for tonight. I’m done waiting. --JW

BEDOOP!

Agreed. The game must be finished. --MH

John grinned. Still the adrenaline junkie, he could hear Sherlock say.

Sherlock…John wiped away the gathering tears and shook it off. Later. When it’s all done, then I’ll mourn. 

Later...  
>>***<<<

A quiet tread upon the stairs caught John’s attention. 

Too quiet for Mrs. Hudson. Too stealthy for Mycroft, who acted as though this was his second home. Too anything for Lestrade, who usually clomped up the stairs like a truckhorse.

The footfalls stopped outside the doorway to the kitchen. Waiting.

“Do come in, Jack. It is Jack Warrington, isn’t it?” John called out from his chair, situated beside a roaring fire. “Son of a peer of the land, caught cheating at cards once too often, in debt to Moriarty for hundreds of thousands of pounds? Now doing his dirty work to save your own miserable neck.” The sneer in John’s voice came across loud and clear.

The young man stepped into the room, gun in hand. He raised it, pointing it at John’s chair as he advanced. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you,” he said.

John sized him up and down as he stood. The lad’s gun hand twitched. “Don’t come near me!”

“I have no intention of doing so. You were seen, you know, leaving the place where my partner was killed. You were identified by no less than three people, willing to testify as to how you raised your gun, fired at us, then turned and ran when my partner fell. I heard you run.” John smiled a deadly smile at him. “Do you know why you’re here?”

The young man, dressed in casual clothing that had seen better days, gave John a wary look. “Yeah. I’m here to finish the job. I missed you because that poncy bloke saw me and jumped in front of you. I would have killed you proper if he hadn’t made a stupid move!” he said, angrily.

“You were sent by Moriarty, weren’t you?” John prodded, taking a single step forward. The gun shook again.

“Yeah. Him and some lady who’s no lady, if you know what I mean,” he stammered. “Stay where you are!”

John laughed drily. “You’re not very good at this sort of thing, are you? Better shooting from the shadows than face to face, hmmm?” He took another step forward. “Harder to look in a man’s eyes when you kill him, isn’t it?” There was no fear in his voice or his demeanor.

The kid, on the other hand, was visibly shaking. “I don’t want to kill anyone, but I owe so much...” he gulped, then continued, “so turn around...”

“No.” Simple and straightforward. “You can shoot me like this or go away.”

He was seriously trembling now. “I can’t ...they’ll kill me...you don’t understand!” he said as he raised the gun to head level, aimed right between John’s eyes…

“Oh, look! Hello, Inspector Lestrade!” John waved, calmly, into the kitchen.

“I’m not falling for that old chestnut!” the young man cried out as his finger tightened on the trigger…

A shot rang out. The surprise on the young man’s face would have been comical, if he had lived…

“Hold it! Police!” came the call from the stairs.

John watched as a hole appeared in the young man’s chest just a moment before his knees gave out and he crumpled to the ground. 

Lestrade had watched, too, from the short hallway that he had just exited. His eyes met John’s in shared surprise.

“Wasn’t expecting that...” Lestrade stated as he approached. Several police officers piled into the room behind him.

“Neither was I, frankly, although I would have appreciated it if your timing had been a bit better,” John observed, nudging the body with his brown-shoed toe. It didn’t move or groan. He looked at the window, where a neat, spiderwebbed hole was visible in the glass. He visually lined up where the gunman had been standing with the hole in the glass and saw a partially-open window in the house across the street. Lestrade leaned in next to him, making the same observation.

“Seems you’ve got a guardian angel,” Lestrade said, “or this guy’s on somebody’s shit list.”

“Both, I think,” John mused as he straightened up, “but why kill him here, and now? His enemies could take him out at any time, and his employers wanted him to do me in, so...” He reached into his pocket and removed a small recorder. “You should have enough here to make your case, Inspector. From the ass’s mouth, so to speak.”

Lestrade took the recorder and pocketed it. “Great job, John. One more member of Moriarty’s crew out of our hair. I just wonder, though...who shot him?”

John pressed his lips together and nodded silently in response. As Lestrade turned away, John whispered to himself, “There’s another player. Bastard.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next day was _ridiculously_ quiet. If it hadn’t been for the steady stream of text messages, John would probably have lost his mind.

 

_BEDOOP_!

 

All is in readiness. Move at your own discretion. Good luck. --MH

 

He nodded. Good. He tapped out a few, brief text messages before sitting back to wait, like a spider in its web…

 

_BEEP!_

 

He read the brief text.

 

One last dance, Dr. Watson. Winner takes all.

 

He smiled. It was _on_.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The trip to the destination given to him wasn’t too far, so John decided to hike it . Ever since their first case together, John had become _very_ suspicious of cabbies. As he walked, he could hear his phone receiving several new texts. Since it was cold out, he decided to seek shelter from the wind in a storefront corner before taking out his phone and reviewing them.

 

_BEEDLEEDLE!_

 

What are you doing? Where are you going? To meet Moriarty? John!

 

_BEEDLEEDLE!_

 

Answer me, John. It’s all over the Network!

 

_BEEDLEEDLE!_

 

DAMMIT, JOHN, ANSWER ME!

 

_BEEDLEEDLE!_

 

Whatever you have planned, stop it! Now!

 

_BEEDLEEDLE!_

 

Go back to Baker Street! NOW!

 

John texted back:

 

Fuck you, Sherlock. 

 

>>>***<<<

 

John stood in the center of an old warehouse. Across from him stood one James Moriarty, jaunty as ever.

 

“John! How good to see you! How have things been without Sherlock? Been missing him much?” he jibed.

 

John smiled drily. “ _You_ didn’t, and I guess that’s the point. However, you didn’t make him suffer, did you? Straight shot to the heart by your hitman? Good work for somebody with such a shaky hand.”

 

A shadow of annoyance flitted across Moriarty’s face. “Yes, well, sometimes it’s hard to get good help these days. Maybe I should have sent my best...”

 

John shifted on his feet, feeling the weight of his gun in the small of his back. “Ye-e-es, where is she, exactly? Lurking about in the shadows? Aiming a gun at my head, like at the pool? Ah, there she is!” he said, opening his arms in a mock embrace as Mary walked out from the poorly-lit doorway behind Moriarty. “Lovely as ever, Mary. _Knew_ it would take more than a badly-scripted confrontation kill to do you in. ‘Saving Sherlock’, indeed! What utter gobshite!” he finished, scornfully.

 

She smirked as she came to stand beside Moriarty. “My dear, dear ex-husband. How are you? Did you ever get to deflower the Virgin after I ‘died’? Oh, sorry, Jim, that was supposed to be _your_ job, wasn’t it?”

 

The smile melted away from Moriarty’s face. “Careful, _Rosamund_. _You_ are on shaky ground with me right now.”

 

“Why?” she challenged. “I did my part. I was supposed to keep him _alive_ , not _kill_ him. That was _Eurus_ ’ job, and she bungled it.”

 

Moriarty re-composed himself very carefully and said, “Well, she’s out of the game again, and you’re still here. I can blame whomever I want.”

 

The sideways glance Mary gave Moriarty was made of glass shards and acid. John took notice.

 

“Oh, trouble on the home front? You two have a domestic? Such a pity,” he mock-sympathized.

 

“Shut up, you paltry excuse for a man!” Mary hissed. “Do you know what it was like having to sleep with you? Pathetic!”

 

“Because you weren’t Sherlock. You could never _be_ on a par with Sherlock. You were _always_ secondary, Mary,” John stated, blandly, but his tight smile said _much_ more.

 

In one fluid motion, Mary drew her gun and pointed it, single-handedly, at John. John’s smile became wider and more deadly.

 

“A gun, Mary? Is that the only way you can solve anything? I have a gun, too. Shall we use them together?” John reached behind himself and slowly, carefully, pulled out his own pistol and pointed it at her. Numerous pinpoints of red light appeared on his body, moving around like dancers on a stage.

 

Moriarty put up his hands. “Now, now, children, let’s not bring out the toys yet. I want to see if, perhaps, we can bring Dr. Watson into _our_ playground now that Sherlock is no longer an influencing factor.” He put his hands behind his back and said, “Well, Doctor? Care to join us? It’s _lots_ more fun over _here_. You love excitement? I can give it to you. You want money? _Scads_ of it! You want power? I can arrange that, too. You want to kill Mary? We can discuss it...”

 

The abrupt fury on Mary’s face as she swung her gun toward Moriarty left no question as to her intentions. “Bastard! I’ll...”

 

A single gunshot rang out. Mary’s body jerked suddenly. Her huge eyes blinked in disbelief before she dropped straight down to the cement floor, a trickle of blood leading away from her body. Moriarty stepped aside as one rivulet passed dangerously close to his well-shined shoes. He looked up at John and shrugged.

 

“A pity,” he said. “She was a good agent and a great assassin, but she was getting a bit sloppy in her advancing age. Good assassins don’t usually last very long in this business--too many pitfalls. Some actually develop a _conscience_ , would you believe that? Not _her_ , of course, but some.” He ambled toward John, pointing to his weapon. “You can put that down now, you know. I _do_ hold the upper hand here.”

 

“I could just kill you,” John replied, his hand unwavering. “Be done with it.”

 

Moriarty shrugged. “You could, but then you’d miss out on all the fun of becoming someone like _me_!” He grinned and held up his hands to display himself. “Look at me, John! Well-dressed, wealthy, powerful, able to get away with _anything_ I want. Even Mycroft Holmes can’t touch me!”

 

“Not when Sherlock was alive, maybe, but now? His hands are no longer tied,” John observed. “You can’t blackmail him anymore by threatening his baby brother and, as you said, his sister is out of the game. Don’t you think he might come after you?”

 

Moriarty wrinkled his nose. “Unlikely. If he _does_ interfere, I can unleash a crime wave that will devastate London...all England, in fact, and he knows it. No,” he continued, checking out his manicure, “he’s effectively checkmated.”

 

John dropped his gun. “Hmmm. You think so?” he asked.

 

“Oh, yes, quite,” Moriarty smiled before looking John up and down. “You could do quite nicely in my organization, you know. A little cleanup, a nice suit...mmmmmm.” He licked his lips speculatively. “I see what Sherlock saw in you. Maybe you’d be even _more_ fun than _he_ would have been...”

 

“Doubt it,” John stated, raising one hand. He snapped his fingers and all the red dots disappeared.

 

Moriarty stared. “What…?”

 

“You wouldn’t like playing with me, Moriarty. You see, I’m a proper cock,” John grinned. Hi lifted his face up and yelled, “Have you got them all?”

 

“Indeed!” Mycroft called back. “We have cleared the building. Only Moriarty is left behind. Hello, James,” he said, as he poked his head out of a second-story sniper’s nest. “Good to see you all alone and defenseless. I must thank whichever trigger-happy sniper removed Mary from the chessboard.” He waved jauntily.

 

Moriarty’s face morphed from surprise to fury. “You...you set me up...with _Mycroft_?”

 

“Not your toy anymore, James,” Mycroft sang out from his post. “You’re done.”

 

In a quick, furtive movement, Moriarty slid a tiny pistol out of his jacket sleeve and pointed it at John.

 

“God, what a cliché,” John chortled, staring at the tiny muzzle. Moriarty’s face became redder as his finger tightened on the trigger.

 

_Bang_!

 

A shadow passed in front of John’s eyes and he flinched, wondering what part of his body the bullet had penetrated before noticing that he was still completely intact. Moriarty was on the ground, struggling beneath the shadowy figure that had crossed John’s vision, and cursing him loudly. John took the opportunity, ill-timed as it was, to kick his savior in the ass.

 

“ **OWW**! What was _that_ for?” Sherlock howled as he struggled.

 

“You did it to me _again_ , you bloody bastard!” John yelled back as he picked up Moriarty’s discarded gun. Several of Mycroft’s agents descended upon them and secured Moriarty, who laughed hysterically.

 

“You’ll never hold me! You don’t have _anything_...” he cackled as they took him away.

 

“Wrong, as usual, Moriarty,” Sherlock shot back as he brushed himself off. “While I was ‘dead’, I took the opportunity to move about freely, without any of your agents being the wiser. I was able to gain access to areas and information that will put you away in Sherrinford for a long time!”

 

An audible, indignant squawk from the direction of the exiting crowd said it all.

 

“Well, brother dear, I see that reports of your demise were, once again, exaggerated,” Mycroft quipped as he sauntered over to them, umbrella in hand. “You might have told me of your plan, you know.”

 

“ _And_ me,” John added, indignantly. Sherlock unconsciously rubbed his bruised bum.

 

“I couldn’t. This time, I had to fool _everyone_. I had to have _complete_ freedom of movement and I couldn’t have done that with _either one_ of you watching out for me.” He held up a finger. “And _please_ don’t tell me you could have _acted_ like I was dead, John. You are a _horrible_ actor. And _you_ \--” he said to Mycroft, “would have insisted on surveilling me, thereby giving away my plans.” He lowered his hand. “I am sorry, but it was _necessary_.”

 

“Do you have it?” Mycroft all-but-whispered.

 

“I gave it to Anthea just before I came over here,” Sherlock said. “I _had_ to make sure nothing untoward happened to my fool of a partner.” His words were sharp but his tone was soft. John seethed inwardly but kept his silence.

 

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Sherlock, for freeing me from my unfortunate constraints. You know I was only trying to protect you...”

 

“I know,” Sherlock admitted, diverting his eyes uncomfortably, like a child caught with a forbidden cookie. “but that time is _done_ , Mycroft. Now, do _your_ job and put Moriarty and his network _away_.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the building without a backwards glance.

 

“I don’t know whether to hug him or kill him,” John gritted out as he watched Sherlock leave.

 

“The dilemma of my life,” Mycroft sighed. “Perhaps you should join him at home. I think you may have a great deal to discuss.”

 

“Indeed,” John quipped as he followed his partner.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Back at the flat, John whipped off his jacket and took up a stance in the center of the parlor. “Well?”

 

“Well, what?” Sherlock replied, laconically, from his seat beside the fireplace.

 

“You did it again.”

 

“Yes, I did. Once again, I have brought a criminal to justice.”

 

“Through highly suspect machinations.”

 

“The best kind, John.”

 

“How did you manage to die _this_ time?”

 

“Remember that vest I had been wearing because I was ‘cold’? Bullet-proof. Also had fake blood packets sewn in. Since I _knew_ you would be hard to fool, I _also_ carried a capsule in my cheek with fake blood and a drug designed to take my heartbeat down to the absolute minimum for survival, thereby rendering me unconscious. _That’s_ why _you_ were sedated and _I_ was taken into A &E by the Network. It was all set up in advance.”

 

Doing a slow burn. “Why?”

 

“Heard on the street that there was a new contract out on you, or that an old one had been re-activated. I _knew_ I had to protect you _and_ to take down the rest of Moriarty’s syndicate again. This time, it was local, however, so it took less time.”

 

Face getting red. “Uh huh. And the gunman at the flat?”

 

A languorous hand raised in the air. “C’est moi. Couldn’t let him perforate my favorite blogger with bullets, could I?”

 

Teeth gritted. “And you _couldn’t_ let me in on the plan? After all this time?”

 

“Psh. You’re a _terrible_ actor. You would have given it all away.”

 

That was it. John exploded. “YOU UTTER COCK!”

 

“Yes.”

 

“UTTER, UTTER...”

 

“You’re repeating yourself.”

 

“GET UP HERE AND FACE ME!”

 

Sherlock sighed and levered himself out of his seat. He stood, looking down at this furious little hedgehog of a man, his face impassive but his eyes alert. “All right, John. I’m here. What do you want of me?” He spread his arms out to his sides as if welcoming an advance.

 

John paced in front of him. “This is the second time you went and did something like this without consulting me. This is the _second_ time I’ve had to mourn you. The first time, for _two years_ , I thought about you. Every. Goddam. Day. I thought I saw you on the streets. I was _crazy_ with grief because of you, and I thought, ‘God, if you give him back to me, I’ll _never_ take him for granted again. I’ll be the kind of man he could be proud to call a partner, a friend. I’ll welcome him with open arms and never, never doubt him again.’ And then, you know what happened? Hmm?” he asked, sticking his face up close to Sherlock’s, like a drill Sergeant chewing out a recruit.

 

Sherlock shook his head ‘no’. He was silent, his expression was one of chastisement.

 

“Well, I’ll tell you what happened. You came back, just as I was about to move on with my life. I was angry, _so fucking angry_ , that I hit you no less than _three_ _times_. And then I walked away and tried to cut you out of my life. I _tried_ , but I couldn’t, _because_ you were such a good friend to me and Mary, and _because_ you can be such an endearing arsehole sometimes, but I was close. I forgot all about all those promises I made to God. I did.” He stopped and made a visible effort to control himself before continuing.

 

Before he did, however, something about Sherlock struck him in the face. The way the man was standing, hands behind his back, head slightly tilted down, shoulders slumped, yet his whole frame was tense. _Braced_ , he realized with a shock. _Sherlock was waiting for John to strike him._ The thought made John nauseous. He held up his hand as he walked to the kitchen and obtained a glass of water, which he downed in one gulp. Then he returned to Sherlock and looked up into that long, sad face again.

 

“So now you’re back from the dead again. Second time. And while I was in the psych ward _this_ time, I talked to God some more. I made the same promises I did the first time. If I got you back, I would treat you better. I would be a better friend. I would admit...” He stopped, not yet ready to reveal himself on that score. So, instead, he stepped forward, wordlessly threaded his arms around Sherlock’s slender body, and hugged him. He felt Sherlock stiffen in surprise before his arms tentatively came around John’s body and, ever-so-lightly, hugged him back.

 

“Don’t _ever_ do that to me again, Sherlock. I can _assure_ you, if you ever need me to act like I’m in mourning, I know _exactly_ how to do it. Fair?” he said, into Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“Fair,” Sherlock rumbled in agreement. John felt his arms tighten a little bit more, while one hand stole up to cradle the back of John’s head. John sighed and just melted into the embrace, for the first time allowing himself to _enjoy_ the contact and comraderie. He smiled when he felt Sherlock’s confused reaction just before he, too, relaxed, resting his cheek on John’s head and nuzzling it just a bit.

 

They both stood there, neither one wanting to break the spell, until Mrs. Hudson came flurrying up the stairs. “Oh, Sherlock, thank heavens you’re safe!” she squealed as he burst into the room and beheld the two men, who promptly pulled apart self-consciously. She ran over and hugged Sherlock, who gave her a robust hug and a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m going to bake a special cake for the occasion! But you’ve got to stop all this ‘being dead’ nonsense, Sherlock; you’re doing _terrible_ things to my nerves. I had to use my herbal soothers again!” As she exited the room, she stopped and declared, over her shoulder, “I knew you weren’t _really_ dead, dear. I have faith in my boys!” and she popped off down the stairs to her own flat to begin baking.

 

John and Sherlock stood facing each other, both looking slightly awkward, when Mrs. Hudson yelled up the stairs, “Don’t forget to let Sherlock see that DVD, John!”

 

Sherlock perked up. “DVD? What DVD?”

 

John rolled his eyes as he procured the offending item and handed it to Sherlock. He read the front and frowned.

 

“I received it after you...died,” John clarified. “It was intended for _you_ , but they sent it to _me_ as part of their ‘game’. Genius loves an audience, and all that.”

 

Sherlock gave him a strange look as he popped the disc into the laptop which, wonder of wonders, was still working after John had flung it to the floor. He watched, eyes intense and lips compressed, as Mary crowed and taunted him about losing John. It surprised John to see excessive moisture in Sherlock’s eyes, as his blinking increased during the monologue. When it was done, he closed the laptop and looked up at John. His eyes were tragic.

 

“God, John, I’m sorry you had to get this. _That_... _that_ was just _hateful_ , especially coming from Mary, from someone you had been so close to.”

 

“Mary proving she’s clever. Not so clever now, is she?” John stated, without remorse.

 

“John...” Sherlock started to say before he abruptly got up from his chair and retreated back to his own seat by the fireplace. John watched in curiosity as Sherlock wrapped himself in indifference and normality again, mask firmly back in place. “The case is done, John. I doubt we will ever see an opponent as objectionable, or as smart and resourceful, as Moriarty again.”

 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” John agreed as he strolled back to his own seat, yet he didn’t sit down. Instead, he stood, staring down at Sherlock until he noticed and returned the gaze.

 

“Yes, John? Is there something I can do for you? Are you hungry? We can go to the Indian restaurant...”

 

“No,” John returned, shaking his head. “No, not this time, Sherlock. Not this time.”

 

A quizzical look was his only reply.

 

“No. I had a long talk with God, and myself, and it’s going to be different this time,” John continued.

 

Sherlock rolled his head around and stated, “John, you can be absolutely _indecipherable_ sometimes...”

 

John took a quick step forward, shoving one knee between Sherlock’s bent ones, which opened in surprise. Then he moved the second knee in and leaned over, placing one hand on each one of Sherlock’s shoulders, pushing him down into the seat. This time, when Sherlock’s face met his, there was something akin to fear in it, accompanied by three new chins as Sherlock pulled his head as far back as possible in response to John’s aggressive stance.

 

“ _ **Truth**_ , Sherlock. It’s time to face the _truth_ ,” John intoned, staring into those brilliant silver eyes. “Ella tried to get me to say it after you died the first time, but I just couldn’t do it. It was too close, too painful. To say it would be to realize _everything_ I could have had but lost at St. Barts.”

 

Sherlock looked stunned, frozen in place. It was something that John had never seen before. It, oddly, gave him _hope_. He pressed on.

 

“You saw the DVD. You heard the same things I did. What did you deduce about what Mary was saying?”

 

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. No words came out. His eyes never wavered. John continued.

 

“Okay, then, if _you_ won’t say anything, I _will_. Tell me, Sherlock, is it true, what she said? Am I… _important_ to you?”

 

A single nod and a hard swallow.

 

“Ah, good, good. Now, tell me, am _I_ your heart, Sherlock Holmes? Or was that just them sticking the knife in?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, and desperate. John could _tell_ , Sherlock just wanted to escape, to be somewhere _else_ , but a voice in the back of John’s mind kept saying _not this time, not this time_. He thought he knew why.

 

“Sherlock,” John continued, his voice quiet and reassuring, “You heard Mary. She _hated_ you. I know that you liked her but...”

 

“I hated her, too,” Sherlock blurted out. This surprised John.

 

“Why?”

 

No answer.

 

“Sherlock, _why_?”

 

_Still_ no answer. Sherlock looked both truculent and defiant. John shrugged.

 

“Okay, then, If you won’t answer, then I’ll continue. You heard Mary. What she said about me, about… how I _feel_...about _you_.” Sherlock blinked rapidly. John dropped his head for a moment to gather himself, then met Sherlock’s gaze again. “She was right. _You_ were on my mind all the time. I should have _never_ married her; I _knew_ it was wrong as soon as the reception was over and I went to look for you and you were gone...” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I knew, then, when I was alone with her, that this was _wrong_ , that _you_ should have been with me instead, but once I found out she was pregnant...” The words came tumbling out of his mouth as the dam opened and his feelings fell free. “I said things wouldn’t change, but I _knew_ they would, and that I might lose you and I was _scared_ , so scared of that, Sherlock...”

 

Sherlock’s arms, which had been resting on the arms of his chair, slowly rose into the air until his hands were bracketing John’s face. He seemed surprised to find tears there.

 

“John...” he murmured, as he leaned his head forward and pressed his lips against John’s trembling ones, tasting salt and coffee and John...they moved against each other, Sherlock’s inexperienced but questing, John’s in need of comfort and caring. Their eyes closed, they brushed and nipped and sucked each others lips in a way that was strangely chaste. When they pulled apart, John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s and whispered, “I love you, and I’m sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused you because of my inability to _see_ it, to _accept_ it. My _fear_ kept us apart.”

 

“I love you, too, John,” Sherlock murmured. “There is no blame to be apportioned. It is what it is.”

 

They opened their eyes and gazed into each other’s, finally seeing that which had been hidden for too long, both accepting it freely and with joy.

 

This time, when Cupid shot his arrow, he didn’t miss.


End file.
